


there's a divinity

by tripleforte



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hamlet, Angst, Canon character deaths, Depression, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, Ghost! Gertrude Robinson, Grief/Mourning, I promise it's not as sad as I'm making it sound with these tags, I'm Bad At Tagging, Inspired by Hamlet, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, M/M, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Mentioned Martin Blackwood's Mother, Multi, Sad Ending, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Stoker Needs a Hug (The Magnus Archives), Tragedy, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 05:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripleforte/pseuds/tripleforte
Summary: There is a ghost in the archives and someone always watching.Jonathan Sims doesn't know what to do.or: When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. pt 1. a piece of him

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the hamlet au no one asked for.  
> for once i am not my own editor - big big thank you to a_little_under_rehearsed and my friend Rachel for editing and hyping me up through this beast of a story. special thanks to a_little_under_rehearsed for saying something back in like december about martin horatio parallel or something that sparked this.

“Sash, hold on, okay. Explain again.”

Sasha ran a hand through her hair, snarling harmlessly at the two men sat across the breakroom table. Martin and Tim both sat with their respective lunches, canned soup for Martin and leftover takeout for Tim. Her own Tupperware of pasta steamed in front of her.

“I think you heard me perfectly well, Stoker,” Sasha stabbed a piece of rotini with her shitty plastic fork. “Can we skip to the part where you tell me I’m out of my mind, then?”

“Never said you were out of your mind,” Tim held up his hands in a sign of good-natured defense. “I just want to make sure I’m getting the facts right is all.”

“Facts won’t make it any less crazy,” she shoved her forkful into her mouth, speaking grumpily around the bite. “Trust me, I was looking for a logical reason for this all night.”

Martin gently stirred his soup, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Have you told Jon about this?”

Sasha snorted. “Are you kidding me? You see how he tears statements apart day after day. You really expect him to take me seriously?”

“But if it’s _you_ though, and it’s about –“

“Then he won’t trash talk me until I’ve left the room.”

“How many times has it been?” Tim asked, his lunch largely ignored in front of him. “How many times have you seen her?”

Sasha pushed pasta around her stained plastic bowl, glaring at the noodles as though they had done her some personal affront. “Three nights in a row, now. Always the same time, always the same path.”

“I think you should tell Jon,” Martin insisted.

“I’m _not_ telling Jon, not –“

The door to the breakroom swung open and all conversation stopped. Jonathan Sims, eyes framed with dark circles, moved like a man on a mission toward the coffee pot. Only after pulling down a chipped mug, filling it to the rim, and turning to leave did he notice the three pairs of eyes trained on his gangly frame. He paused mid-sip, staring right back at his three assistants.

He brought his cup away from his lips, face fixed in his familiar unamused snarl. “Why are you all so quiet? I’ve never seen you all quiet at the same time, not even during staff meetings.”

“Just taking in the view, boss,” Tim winked.

Jon scowled, made a light noise of disapproval. “If this has anything to do with Elias’ email about budget cuts, then trust me, none of you are losing your job this round of lay-offs -” Jon brought the mug back to his lips and took his leave, growling under his breath “ _believe me_ , I asked.”

An uneasy silence still sat over the archival assistants as they watched the breakroom door swing shut.

Sasha gently snapped the lid back onto her Tupperware. “Tonight. Eleven thirty. Meet me in the archives.”

Martin grimaced. “Tonight? I have, uh, plans tonight.”

“Plans that go until midnight? Right on, Mart-o,” Tim knocked shoulders with him, smirking as the larger man blushed. “I’ll be there. If Sash isn’t crazy you can come the next night, how’s that?”

“I want all of us to see it before we tell Jon,” Sasha insisted. “One of us he can call crazy, two of us a prank, but all three? He’d have to believe us.”

Martin looked from Sasha to Tim, from Tim to Sasha.

He sighed. “Fine. You two go tonight, and tomorrow night I’ll see if it’s really there.”

He had a bad feeling about this.

‘’

_“Martin, holy shit, she’s right.” –_ a muffled _“Of course I’m right!”_ from the background.

Martin squinted at the clock on his bedside table, brain still fuzzy with lingering scents of care homes and his mum’s perfume. “Tim, it’s two am.”

_"Martin, there is a fucking ghost in the archives and you’re worried about_ sleep? _C’mon –“_

“I’ll see it tomorrow, then.”

“ _Martin –“_

“Goodnight, Tim,” Martin hung up the call.

‘’

Sasha swung open the main doors of the institute at 11:45 pm the following night. She kicked the brick in the door Tim had left into the nearby decorative foliage. Martin shivered in the cool January air, looking nervously around as Sasha slipped inside.

“C’mon, Martin, we’re already late,” Sasha called quietly, clicking on her torch as she disappeared into the dark depths of the Magnus Institute. Martin darted after her before the door could swing shut.

The sound of his and Sasha’s steady footsteps bounced off the high ceilings as they crept through the foyer, Sasha’s torch casting eerie shadows about the regal space.

“Why were you even here this late in the first place?” Martin trudged behind Sasha and her light, fingers curled around two thermoses of tea, one for Tim and one for himself.

“Honestly? I stayed late to look into the Amy Patel case and ended up falling asleep at my desk,” Sasha laughed. “Woke up to that stupid meme Tim sent in the group chat – the weird anthropology one? – and ended up seeing _her_ on my way out.”

They began their descent into the archives, Sasha still in the lead with a jumpy Martin trailing behind. The torchlight bobbeds as Sasha uncaps her own thermos of tea for a sip.

“I thought Jon was the one who always stayed late?” Martin eyed the looming doorway at the end of the stairs.

“Oh, he talks a big game but he’s typically out of here at nine or so,” Sasha sipped her tea. “I think he brings stuff home, though, so who knows how late he ends up working in reality.”

“Right.”

“Do you still not believe me?” Sasha looked back at him briefly, opening the door to the archive and holding it for him. He stepped into the bowels of the institute, some sort of bass heavy music echoing off the cool walls of the archives and sending a chill down his spine.

“Didn’t say that,” Martin mumbled.

“Sash? Martin?” Tim’s voice echoed from the office across from Jon’s. “That you? I made popcorn!”

Martin wasn’t facing her, but he could almost feel Sasha rolling her eyes.

A gentle light poured from the door of the archival assistant office, yellow pooled across the cement floors, muted music pouring from the inside. They approached, Sasha clicking off her torch, Martin clutching both thermoses of tea a little tighter. Tim sat at his desk – well, _on_ his desk, feet on the rolling chair meant for sitting. His eyes brightened and he smiled as they stepped into the light cast by his desk lamp and laptop--the source of the music. A hefty bowl of popcorn sat beside him on the desk, making the whole room smell of delicious butter.

“I can’t believe you actually made popcorn,” Sasha scoffed, setting her torch down on her own desk and plucking a few pieces from the bowl. “I tell you to lay low until we get here and you make the loudest microwave food you can think of?”

“Oh, come off it. Jon went home hours ago, and I haven’t seen anyone since him all night,” Tim set his laptop next to him on the desk. His eyes settled on Martin. “Is that tea? Did you bring tea to a fucking ghost hunt?”

“Uh,” Martin blinked. “Yeah? Was – was I supposed to bring something else?”

Tim made grabby hands at the thermoses. “Martin Blackwood, you are a fucking gift. You make the best tea in London and I would have you bring nothing else.”

Martin flushed lightly and handed over the bulkier of the thermoses – more insulation. Tim uncapped the drink and took a satisfied inhale before taking a sip.

“Well, we’ve got about five minutes, I think,” Sasha glanced at her watch. “Any last doubts, Martin?”

Martin flushed all over again.

“Wait, you still don’t believe us?” Tim peered at Martin over the edge of his thermos.

“I- I didn’t, It’s not that I don’t - don’t believe you, I just –“

“Scared?” Tim asked. Martin’s jaw clicked shut. He nodded silently. “I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ scared. _I’m_ scared, and I’ve seen her. Trust me, she’s _very_ real.”

“Guys.”

“I’m sure she _is_ , but I’m not –‘

“Hey, guys.”

“-gonna take ghost stories at their face value, I mean- “

“ _GUYS.”_

Tim and Martin looked to Sasha, who was looking to the doorway. Sasha, who was looking to the faintly glowing figure that hovered in front of Jon’s office. Martin froze.

The woman decked in cardigans and spectacles looked unseeingly into the office. Her hair was tight in a bun, her skin was loose on her skeleton, her body limp but still standing, her eyes her eyes her eyes. Martin couldn’t look at her eyes. There was something about her eyes her eyes he-

“ _Martin,_ ” Tim gripped his sleeve, bringing back to the present. There was still a ghost before them, a ghost of a woman not yet confirmed dead – well, Martin Blackwood was _here_ , in the archives, staring at some pretty solid confirmation. Tim shook him a little. “You okay?”

“You’re joking, right?” Martin tore his gaze away to gawk at Tim. “We’re stood in front of Gertrude Robinson’s ghost and you’re asking me if I’m _okay_?”

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t going into shock or something-“

“She’s moving,” Sasha announced, pushing past the boys to follow as the glowing figure began to slowly make her way down the hallway.

Martin looked to Tim, who only raised his eyebrows in response. They followed behind, their thermoses left on the desk, the laptop still spilling quiet music.

Their little trio trailed behind Gertrude, moving their way to a heavy door at the end of the hall. Gertrude moved as though opening that door and disappeared behind the heavy oak, with Sasha quick to grapple with the actual thing and follow behind. Suddenly, the three were following the glowing figure through the dark, dark stacks of the archive.

The ghost turned down seemingly random aisles of the stacks for what felt like hours. It felt like a dream. Like limbo. Like fucking _purgatory_. Or hell, it could definitely be hell, Martin mused. Tim still clutched the end of his sweater, and Martin, taking up the rear, wouldn’t be surprised if Tim’s other hand was somehow latched onto Sasha, who led the way.

When Sasha stopped, Tim bumped lightly into her, his hold on Martin tightening momentarily. Gertrude, about two dozen paces in front of them, had stopped, knelt, and fiddled. They watched, frozen, as she straightened again, took two steps, and disappeared into the floor below.

All was dark and quiet, then, the tension thick in the air and in their lungs. The sound of Tim’s frightened breaths was the only unit of time Martin could measure for heavy beats.

“Where did she go?” Martin’s voice echoed in the silence.

“The trapdoor’s there. She did this the last few nights, too,” Sasha’s voice is frail. “I waited for her the second night for an hour or so. She didn’t come out.”

“The trapdoor we keep loc –“

“Yeah.”

The silence settled back between them filled only by the faint rustling of fabric. A light blinded the three of them for a few seconds as Sasha turned on her phone’s torch. She pointed the beam at the ground, illuminating the lower half of their faces and casting deep shadows on their features. Martin could see Tim now had a grip on Sasha’s hand not holding the phone.

They all stared at each other in the shoddy light.

“Well. What now, then?” Tim’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Martin let out a shaky breath. “We need to tell Jon.”

Sasha and Tim locked eyes and looked to Martin. They nodded.

‘’

**The Magnus Weekly Message – Week of Jan 18 th  
**From: Elias Bouchard (boucharde@magnusinstitutelondon.org.uk)  
To: [All Institute Staff] [All Volunteers]

Happy Monday, all.

It is of the utmost importance that we all communicate as an institute, so I appreciate those of you who have reached out to me to help improve these weekly update emails and make them feel more useful. I hope you are seeing improvements in these memos with every passing week.

To address what I’m sure you are all actually reading this email for: No, there is no update on the whereabouts of previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson. The authorities have assured me they are doing their best to follow up on any leads. At this time, Ms. Robinson is still presumed dead. Jonathan Sims has filled her role, but we are still following her case and hoping for her safety. If you have any information you believe could help the investigation, please contact myself or PC Basira Hussain.

Now, I would also like to address the concerns about the budget cuts discussed in last week’s email. Those no longer continuing their careers here at the Institute were informed before Thursday’s email. All personnel who have not received word of their leave have no need for concern. I trust that the panic can dwindle now.

Our shout-outs for the week:  
Everyone wish Nicole from Artefact storage a happy birthday this Tuesday! Sending warm wishes…

‘’

_Click_.

Jonathan Sims leant back in his desk chair, scrubbing a hand through his hair (and he needed to cut his hair, needed to find time to cut his hair) and glaring at the now-still tape recorder now on his desk (his desk, Gertrude’s desk, _his_ desk). With the adrenaline of statement reading gone, he could hear the familiar chatter of Tim from across the hall, muffled laughter from Martin, snide remarks from Sasha (Sasha, this should have been Sasha’s office, not –). It should not have been comforting, these sounds. But _should_ didn’t mean much these days, did it?

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.

He straightened in his chair, gathering the loose pages of the statement into a pile and hastily shoving a paperclip onto them as he called out for the knocker to come in. Ready for Tim or Sasha or (god forbid) Martin to come through the door, he fixed his face into a passive frown. However, the door opened to reveal –

“Elias, I – did, did we have a meeting?” Jon shuffled more papers on his desk in a feeble attempt to look put together, but likely signaling exactly the opposite.

Elias smiled warmly (warm like a sticky humid night, maybe) and softly closed the door behind him. “No, no, you’re alright, Jon. Just wanted to pass this off to you –“ He laid a manila folder on Jon’s (Gertrude’s) desk. “It’s the last of the paperwork. Once you have this filled out you will officially be our new Head Archivist.”

Jon stared at the folder. “Right. Thank you.”

Elias, still standing on the other side of the desk, all sharp edges and pressed suits, looked down at Jon. He cocked his head to the side lightly. “How is the new position finding you? All settled in?”

Jon tried to smile at his boss, really, but it came off as more of a grimace. “I am certainly learning a lot. The organization of the archives themselves is going to need a lot of work, but I am sure we’ll get it in working order. The recording aspect isn’t going particularly well, though, I admit. Tapes weren’t exactly what I envisioned when I planned on digitizing the archives.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out Jon. You’re a smart man.”

“Hm.” Jon shoved his bangs from his face (he needed to cut his hair he looked unprofessional no good no good).

Elias looked at him inquisitively, eyebrows drawing together, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening ever so slightly. “You know, Jon, I see a lot of myself in you – curious, ambitious-“ His lips twitched into a small smirk. “- _prickly_.”

“I’m not- “

“Yes yes, I’m sure you’re not,” Elias was smiling now, back to his warm, sticky smile. “But that aside, you haven’t been promoted for no reason, you know. A position needed to be filled and I’m confident that I chose the best man for the job.”

Jon glared at the stack of papers on his desk, cheeks red at the (not true just flattery not tr-) compliment.

“Th-thank you, Elias,” Jon’s voice was quieter than he intended.

Elias nodded his head slowly. “You’re welcome,” he stepped back from the desk, and Jon felt like he could breathe again. “Now, I’m sure you have better things to be doing than listening to me prattle on. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Uh, yes. Thank you.” Jon only watched as Elias gave him one last smile before disappearing into the hallway.

Silence fell over Jon’s office, only interrupted by the soft _thud_ of his forehead hitting the wood of his desk.

_“Fuck._ ”

‘’

_Knock knock_

Martin stood, nervous, before Jon’s office door. One hand was still lightly poised over the wood to knock, the other clutching the handle of a steaming mug. Jon had already yelled at him several times for interrupting statements, and he could really do without that today. He waited for a response, but none came. He tried again.

_Knock knock._

Silence again.

“Jon?”

Carefully, _slowly,_ Martin twisted the handle of the door, opening it just enough to peer into with one eye.

“Jo-?”

Martin paused at the sight. Jon slumped over his desk, head against the tabletop, hands linked over the back of his head. The muffled sound of muttering could be heard even from Martin’s place on the other side of a door. For a moment he could only stare, eyes wide as he took in the sight of his grumpy, attracti- his _asshole_ boss in seemingly a moment of private distress.

He tried to back up, close the door and leave Jon – this ghost business can come later, really – when he _fucking tripped over his step backwards and_ –

And, long story short, with a cup of tea in one hand and only one hand to catch himself against the door frame, Martin would be even more worried about Jon if he _didn’t_ notice Martin basically slam himself into the door to avoid falling back.

When Martin’s eyes settled back on Jon’s desk, the man in question was, in fact, staring at Martin with a frazzled, panicked expression playing across his features.

“S-Sorry, I –“ Martin started, feeling his cheeks bloom with embarrassment.

“What do you want?” snapped Jon, hastily wiping at his face and shoving a hand through his lengthy curls.

“Nothing – I mean I can come back – I brought tea but –“

Jon’s eyes dragged to the mug in Martin’s hand. “I thought I told you I don’t need tea.”

“You kind of looked like you did just now, no offense?” the words slipped from Martin’s lips before he could process them. Instantly, a new flush of embarrassment came over him as he realized he basically just admitted to peering into Jon’s office.

Instead of the lecture Martin expected, though, Jon simply bristled lightly, looking from the tea to Martin. He sighed. “Perhaps I do, yes.”

Martin blinked.

Carefully, he made his way into Jon’s office, placing the mug on the desk and watching Jon gently fold shaking hands around it. The moment seems fragile, like at any moment Jon may realize he was showing some sort of nicety to Martin Blackwood of all people, but Jon simply raised the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip.

The moment was fragile, and yet Martin knew he needed to break it.

“Are you alright?” he figured was a good place to start.

“Fine,” Jon said, but his shaking hands and wary gaze said otherwise. Martin idly wondered if Jon had been alright for even a moment since taking the job of Head Archivist. “Was there anything you needed or was this just one of your –“ his expression shifted into something lightly annoyed “- _deliveries_.”

“Uh, actually,” Martin shifted from foot to foot. “I did have, I mean I wanted to – to inform you about –“

“ _Martin_.”

“There’s something you should know.”

“Which is?”

Martin swallowed. “Gertrude Robinson is haunting the archives?”

Jon stared. He stared for a moment, two, and took a sip of his tea. The steam fogged his glasses, but he seemed to pay it no mind, instead looking at Martin as though he made about as much sense as an abstract painting.

Then he said just one thing, more of a hiss than a word – _“Explain._ ”

“We-we saw her, Gertrude, last night in the archives. She went from here, from your office to the stacks and went into that – that trapdoor-“

“We?” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Tim, Sasha and I. Just around midnight she appeared.”

Jon was silent again for a moment, eyes now shut tightly. “And what in God’s name were you doing in the archives at _midnight_?”

“Well, Sasha said she saw it but wanted backup and so me and Tim –“

“Okay. No. I’ve heard enough. I don’t know what sort of horrid joke you’re trying to play on me, but I don’t appreciate being mocked as such.”

“Jon-“

“Get back to work.”

The door to Jon’s office creaked. Both men whirled around to stare at the two familiar figures standing in the doorway: Sasha with her knuckles white around a chipped mug of coffee and Tim with furrowed eyebrows looking between Jon and Martin.

Tim’s eyes settle on Martin. “I thought we said we were gonna tell him about this together.”

“You aren’t all seriously trying to tell me Gertrude Robinson is haunting the archives, are you?” Jon sat back in his chair. “Am I honestly supposed to accept that?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sasha piped in.

Jon stared at them with wide, annoyed eyes. “Why are you telling me any of this?”

“Well considering it’s _your_ predecessor coming from _your_ office, we figured you may want to hear about it,” Tim gave Jon an incredulous look.

“That’s not all, though,” Martin said and then instantly shrank as all three turned to look at him. “There was – her, she had something with her eyes? They were, uh… _wrong?”_

“Wrong?” Jon asked at the same time Sasha asked “What do you mean her eyes?” Tim peered at Martin inquisitively, also seemingly not following Martin’s line of thought.

Martin froze. “What do you mean _what do you mean_?”

“Her eyes were odd, sure, but no weirder than the rest of her,” Sasha’s eyebrows furrowed.

“They-they were _worse_ , though, they were- they were like she could see through you almost?” Martin babbled. “You had to have noticed that, right?”

“Sorry, Mart-o, you’re on your own with that one,” Tim’s expression turned slightly more worried than inquisitive.

Martin looked between the two of them, ready to throw accusations of hazing him or lying, when Jon’s deep tone interrupted his thoughts.

“Midnight, you said she comes around?” he waited until Sasha nodded. “And how many nights has this been that you’ve seen her?”

“Five including last night,” Sasha said. “Tim’s seen it twice and Martin just the once.” Her eyes settled on Martin again, questions still swimming in her expression.

“And I’m assuming you want me to see it – this, this _ghost,”_ Jon’s voice was bitter around the shape of that word.

Silently, the three assistants nodded.

Jon sighed. “If this _is_ a prank, I’m making you all do overtime work.”

“Does that mean you’ll see it?” Martin asked.

“If there’s anything to see, then yes.” He took a sip of tea.

Martin couldn’t help but feel as though they’d just made a mistake.

‘’

**RE: Research Request?  
**From: Elias Bouchard (boucharde@magnusinstitutelondon.org.uk)  
To: Melanie King (melanie@ghosthuntuk.com)

Hello Miss King,

Thank you for reaching out. I’ve received some choice words from our Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims, about your work with Ghost Hunt UK, and all your paperwork does seem to be in order. As such, I have cleared it with our Head Librarian, Diana Mason, and you are all set to access our materials here at the Institute. Any of the materials in the library are free to be accessed during our opening hours and certain materials can be checked out if necessary. Access to our artefact storage will have to come on a case-by-case basis, however, as some of our artefacts are rather dangerous and the Institute would rather not be liable for any harm that comes as a result of handling.

While I admit I myself have never seen your show, I understand it is quite popular. When you came in to make your statement you drew the attention of several of our younger staff members as well as other researchers who use our resources. If you feel our services are valuable to your show, then it would be much appreciated to have any sort of “shout-out” in your videos. It is no secret that our funding has taken a hit in the past few months, so any outreach opportunities for the Institute would be very welcomed.

Thank you again for your interest – we look forward to working with you in the future.

Elias Bouchard  
Head of the Magnus Institute, London

''

They wait.

When the clock struck five, Sasha and Tim disappeared to do a takeaway and coffee run, and while Martin had expected Jon to continue toiling away at statements and paperwork until someone physically forced him to stop, Jon had other ideas. Martin was halfway through scribbling oddball lines of poetry into his notebook – prose and metaphors and the like – when Jon all but jumpscared him, poking his head in the door of the assistants’ shared office and asking if Martin was making tea.

Martin wasn’t sure how they ended up in the breakroom, Jon leant against the counter cradling a cuppa and Martin sat at the table explaining the proper steeping temperatures of tea. Jon seemed curious, which was surprising, and Martin felt competent enough to explain, which was also surprising in the presence of one (handso- _stop it)_ Jonathan Sims. Martin would daresay it was _comfortable_ between the two of them for possibly the first time since Martin had properly met the man. Well, that is, comfortable until –

_Bzzt bzzt._

“Ah, sorry, just let me –“ Jon prattled, eyebrows furrowing as he dug his phone from the pocket of his (really rather well-fit- _stop_ ) dark jeans. He peered at the screen, eyes flitting over words, mouth pulling into a deep frown. The silence stretched between the two of them as Jon unlocked his phone and read over whatever was so disturbing him.

“Alright, there?” Martin’s voice did not shake, but his hands did ever so slightly as the silence sobered him from the haze of Jon’s attention

Jon’s eyes flickered up at Martin, frown still deeply set. “The news has hold of Gertrude’s case.”

“Oh. Right then.”

“Hm,” Jon turns off his screen, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He peered into his mug, chipped and faded with the logo of some company long out-of-business. The image of him, slight and weary, had Martin holding his breath waiting for his next words (this is not the first time he’d found himself breathless around Jon). Jon’s eyes flickered to Martin. “What are we waiting for, Martin? To see a ghost of a missing woman? Is that what we’re doing now?”

“Apparently so,” Martin shrugged, trying for confidence that fit like a too-small sweater, itchy and tight. “Do you believe us?”

“It doesn’t matter if I believe you. I’ll see for sure if you’re telling the truth or not come midnight,” Jon looked back down at his tea.

Martin fiddled with his own mug. “You’re allowed to be scared, Jon.”

“ _I’m not –“_

“I am.”

Jon’s eyes snapped to his and Martin did not avert his gaze. Sometimes people needed to hear things, to feel things – Martin knew this. Jon was not letting himself feel something that he very much needed to feel. Eyebrows furrowing again, Jon sheepishly looked back into the depths of his tea.

“There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“What?”

“It- It’s from a play? Shakespeare?” Martin flushed, sensing his misplaced poetry shatter some sort of moment again.

“Right,” Jon peered at him, reserved but still looking. Martin met his gaze and smiled sheepishly, cheeks ruddy. Jon blinked, but the familiar look of annoyance was absent from his features. Small miracles and all that.

“Right.”

‘’

“A brick in the door? Really, Sash?” Tim juggled two bags of Thai and a drink carrier, rolling his eyes as Sasha threw open the door of the Institute and peered about.

The hour had not yet hit seven, but the doors locked at six, and as such, Sasha again had stuck a brick in one of the doors to the side of the main entrance. Tim followed Sasha inside, grumbling after her to carry something more than the bag of snacks from Tesco.

“I figured people would still be around, but I didn’t want to bang on the doors with our arms full, you know?” Sasha looked back at him briefly, kicking the brick back into the foliage.

“You literally have one bag – you don’t get to say _our_ arms full,” Tim snipped although there was little fire behind it. Sasha rolled her eyes and grabbed the drink carrier.

“Could’ve said that in a less passive-aggressive way, Stoker,” Sasha quipped.

“Could’ve noticed your dear friend suffering earlier, James.”

Sasha giggled, and continued to lead the way down to the archives. Tim, despite his pouting, couldn’t help but smile.

“Sasha?” echoed across the entryway as they approached the hall, making them pause. They turned to the sight of a dyed and punkish figure making her way over to them with a smile.

“Melanie King?” Sasha grinned, walking over to her with a matching smile. Tim, still weighed down with takeaway, followed after.

All dyed hair tips and ripped jeans, Melanie King was not what one may expect to see in the Magnus Institute. While the building was pillared, the employees (mostly) clean cut, and the aura elitist, Melanie… Well, Melanie seemed to fit the “YouTube Ghost Hunter” vibe quite a bit more. Watching Sasha – bespectacled, button-downs and sweaters Sasha – greet Melanie like a friend, Tim couldn’t help but smirk at the conflict of aesthetics before him.

“What are you doing here?” Sasha asked, grin still plastered across her face. Oh yeah, Tim would be teasing her about this later.

“I got okay-ed to use the library for research. Just got the email today, but I wanted to come in and introduce myself to the librarian and all the people I’ll need to schmooze to stay in good graces,” Melanie looked between the two of them. “What’s with the food?”

Tim grinned. “Archive party of sorts,” he winked. “Very exclusive.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Right, because you lot definitely seem like the partying sort.”

“I can party!” Sasha exclaimed at the same time Tim huffed out a defensive “Hey!”

“Oh please, as if Jon would let you guys do anything fun,” Melanie scoffed. Sasha made a considering expression at that.

“You’ve only met stressed-boss-man Jon,” Tim contested. “For all you know, Jon could be a party animal outside of work.”

Melanie laughed at that one. “I have sources who say otherwise.”

“Sources?” Tim cocked his head to the side. “What sources?”

“A mutual friend of sorts. His ex, my friend and sometimes co-creator,” Melanie seemed to size him up with this (which, at her height, was quite an accomplishment).

“Jon’s ex? Who?” Sasha’s eyes widened. As straight edged as she likes to present herself, Tim knew Sasha to be quite the gossip when the occasion presented itself.

“Georgie Barke –“

“ _Georgie Barker?_ ” Sasha’s voice echoed in the empty entry way. “Like ‘What the Ghost’ Georgie Barker?”

“That Georgie Barker, yes,” Melanie seemed to be enjoying the gossip just as much as Sasha. “Apparently her and Jon went out in uni. I told her I came to make a statement and when she found out who I’d made a statement to she had _a lot_ to say about your Jonathan Sims – and not a lot of it good. Apparently, the breakup was messy.”

“That was years ago, though,” Tim found himself saying. “Plenty of people have messy relationships in uni.”

“Not every relationship ends with a whole friend group siding with one party though, does it?” Melanie challenged.

Tim wasn’t sure what to say to that, but the urge to prove Melanie wrong sat high in his chest. What did she know, anyway? She didn’t know Jon. Jon with his god-awful jokes and vicious curiosity, his stilted compliments and empty threats, his sad eyes, nervous ticks, bewildered kindness.

There were nights, back in the research days, when Tim would invite Jon for drinks, and Jon would say yes. There were nights Tim and Jon would be the last ones at the table at the end of the night, where Jon would be explaining the alignment of the stars or the callouses on his grandmother’s hands and Tim would be staring for just a moment too long. Jon would look up from his rambling, catch his gaze, and stumble over his words. Tim would look away, worried about making him uncomfortable or – or looking too honest and Jon… and Jon would flush, smile in that shy way of his, and continue his story. They’d walk to the tube station together at close, and, as much as he wanted to, Tim never quite got the nerve to ask Jon back to his. Jon would always say goodnight with a knowing look, though.

Tim missed those nights.

Coming out of his thoughts, Tim became aware of Sasha telling Melanie some sort of warnings about the “sexist bastards” to avoid and the “elitist bull” of restricted sections of the library. Melanie seemed to be taking it all to memory, but Tim also couldn’t help but notice Melanie looking to the slowly waning light outside the Institute’s doors.

“Hey Sash, we _do_ have food still,” Tim jiggled the bags of takeout. “And I’m guessing Melanie has a bus to catch.”

Sasha blushed slightly as she seemed to notice both the cooling coffee in her hands and the dimming light of the sky. “Right, right, sorry, I just. I guess I got excited for a moment there,” she laughed nervously, looking from Tim to Melanie. “But really, if anyone gives you any trouble just let me know, alright? Some of these men here are downright pigs."

“I’ll definitely take you up on that if I need it,” Melanie assured her. Tim looked from her heavy Docs to her scarred hands and thinks she probably won’t need it. “And if Jon gives you trouble let _me_ know. I’m sure I can get some sort of blackmail out of Georgie.”

The desire to defend bloomed in his chest again, but Tim just smiled good naturedly and wished her a goodnight, watching her lithe form slip out onto the streets of London. Tim turned to continue down to the archives, but the Tesco bag gently tapped into Tim’s side as Sasha touched his shoulder.

“Tim,” she said earnestly, looking at him through those huge glasses of hers. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and Jon?”

Tim actually laughed at that one. “Nothing to tell, Sash.”

“Right,” Sasha’s eyes trailed over his face, and seemingly finding nothing off, she nodded. “Right. Good.”

She continued down the hall to the stairway, and Tim trailed behind.

“So Melanie’s cute, isn’t sh-“

“Shut up, Tim.”

‘’

They wait.

The hour grows late, later, later still. Martin makes the third round of tea for the evening as it approaches eleven thirty while Sasha and Tim play Go Fish at the table. Jon sits in the corner on the raggedy armchair that had probably been there since before any of them were born, his laptop keys creating a steady rhythm as he responds to emails and types up reports and does whatever else it is that he sees fit to do at 11 at night. He put in his earphones sometime after nine and hadn’t so much as looked up from his screen since.

Martin idly wondered what he was listening to.

He lined up the four mugs on the counter, each chipped and flawed in their own ways, and placed a bag of black English tea into each. He added a splash of milk to Sasha’s, a bit more milk and some sugar to Tim’s and his own, and a little less milk but two times the sugar to Jon’s. The electric kettle boiled on, and Martin turned it off with a click, pouring the steaming water into the waiting cups. He stirred each gently, watching the liquid turn varying shades of brown. Five minutes to steep, then. He set about putting the milk in the fridge, the box of tea and the sugar in the cupboard. It was a soothing thing, to take care of others like this. This, he could do. If nothing else, he could always do this.

Jon’s laptop continued to go _clack clack clack,_ Sasha laughed at something Tim said, and the light sound of some indie band continued to play from Sasha’s laptop on the table. And then, well – then the sound of typing suddenly stopped.

Sasha and Tim continued to babble and laugh, but Martin looked over at the man in the corner. Jon, his eyes trailing over the screen, eyebrows furrowed. One hand idly fiddled with the wire of his headphone, and Martin found himself watching that absentminded movement as though in a trance. The trance, however, was broken by Jon’s (striking, God they were strikingly green) eyes snapping to Martin.

Martin blushed, busying himself with the tea again – had it been five minutes? Probably, yes, sure. He brought two mugs over to Sasha and Tim, who accepted it with thanks and continued to torment each other via card game, and then approached Jon slowly. Jon, who was still watching him.

He held out the chipped, steaming mug. “You alright? Emails still keeping you busy?”

Jon’s eyes flickered back to the screen for a moment. “Uh, yes. Quite.” He took the offered tea from Martin, wrapping those thin fingers around the cup as he held it near his chest, eyes now again trailing over the screen.

“You sure? You seem, uhm, kind of stressed?” Martin fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.

He didn’t expect Jon to respond, not really, but Jon was full of surprises today, wasn’t he?

“Sometimes I just,” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as though warding off a headache. “I would like to know just what Elias is thinking.”

“O-Oh?” Martin felt a Jon rant coming on and suddenly itched for his own tea, which was still sat on the counter on the other side of the room.

“He gives me this position, hands me a disaster of an archive, lets me pick a team regardless of their qualifications, and when I ask for a modicum of guidance, he gives me nothing more than a few meaningless pep-talks,” Jon halted, taking a deep breath. “Sometimes it feels like he’s two different people. One’s telling me to work harder, the other’s telling me to slow down. It’s impossible to tell what his goal is, here.”

“Bold of you to assume Elias has goals beyond getting that cash money,” Tim called from the table. Sasha laughed, but Jon just furrowed his eyebrows more. Martin looked between the two of them, wanting to joke back to Tim but also to soothe Jon but also to get his tea steadily cooling on the counter. Tim continued. “C’mon, Jon. Elias probably isn’t giving you any advice because he doesn’t have a clue what actually happens down here. He worked in the bloody filing department until he got his own promotion.”

“He has been the director of this institute for 15 years, Tim, I’d think he’d have something beyond meaningless platitudes for me,” Jon snipped back.

“And you’d also think that the cryptid bastard would have a bit more to say about Gertrude Robinson than ‘ah yes, we’ve replaced her, don’t worry,’” Tim’s voice lowered into a treacherous imitation of Elias’s voice. “If you’re looking for some sort of pat on the back or anything actually helpful, I think I’ve seen the head librarian give out more earnest compliments than Elias, and Diana is a total hard-ass.”

Martin couldn’t help but nod at that sentiment, shivering lightly at memories of Diana’s not-so-constructive criticism in his years working in the library. Jon, on the other hand, only frowned deeper and went back to _clack clack clacking_ away at his laptop with an annoyed muttering under his breath. Tim, rolling his eyes, simply dealt a new hand of cards for him and Sasha.

Moment seemingly dropped, Martin made his way back to his tea which was now just a bit less than lukewarm. He turned to lean against the counter as he took his first sip, letting the warmth seep into his weary bones and closing his eyes to let his tension float away with the cold. When he opened his eyes, his gaze settled on the door to the breakroom – or rather, what sat beyond the door to the breakroom – or rather, _who_ lurked in the hallway beyond the door to the breakroom.

_Her eyes_ , there was something – he didn’t – it was just for a second that he looked in her _eyes but -_

If Martin’s yelp of fear didn’t get the other three’s attention, then the sound of his mug crashing to the floor certainly did.

Everyone was on their feet in an instant. Sasha was beside him, gripping his shoulder and asking in a rush “What? What’s happened?” Tim took one look at Martin before following his gaze to the eerie form of Gertrude Robinson across the hall. Martin tore his eyes away from the ghostly form, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his palms against them and –

“It’s really her.”

Martin opened his eyes to the sight of Jon, wide eyed and panicked, eyes locked on the figure. He took a few steps forward and stopped, eyes still trained on Gertrude, and Martin cast his gaze to the ghost and – and –

And Gertrude was staring back at Jon with a matching intensity.

“Jon, what the _hell_ is happening?” Tim seemed to have the realization at the same moment. “Why’s she looking at you? She’s never looked at us, so why is she-?”

“What’s wrong with her eyes?” Jon interrupts, stepping closer to the woman.

“What-?” Sasha started.

“Her eyes. Why are her eyes like th-“

“You see it, too?” Martin breathed.

Jon laughed, a mirthless thing that seemed almost punched out of him. “Of course I see it. They’re – they’re –“

The figure of Gertrude Robinson raised a frail hand into the air, beckoning, eyes ( _eyes her eyes eyes eyes eyes)_ still locked on Jon’s.

“What the _actual_ fuck?” Sasha gripped Martin’s sleeve tighter – even Tim, all laughs and bravery, stumbled back a step. Jon, though…

Gertrude began to move, much like she had previous nights, and Jon followed.

For a moment, the three assistants stood stock still, watching their boss slip out of the room with no hesitation, no fear. They looked at each other, took a collective breath, and hurried to follow.

The darkness of the hall gave way to the darkness of the stacks as they trailed a few feet behind the glowing phantom and the shivering shape of Jonathan Sims. Martin took the lead of their trio this time, eyes fixed not to Gertrude but to Jon – Jon, who seemed entranced by the ghost, who shook like a leaf, who noticed her eyes. It still felt like a trek through the underworld, Martin mused, but instead of counting time with the sound of their steps or the aisles passed, he counted the twitching of Jon’s fingers, the muttered concerns of Tim and Sasha, the head turns of the ghost as she looked back to make sure Jon was still following.

They approached the aisle with the trapdoor, just as they had the night previous, and the three assistants paused near the beginning of the aisle. Gertrude stood about where the trapdoor sat locked beneath the shoddy rug, looking expectantly to Jon who approached uneasily.

Martin watched as Gertrude leant down and Jon did the same. The ghost’s hands pointed, Jon pushed the rug aside, and Gertrude, as she had before, fiddled with the lock. Unlike the night before, though, there was a click.

“What?” Sasha muttered under her breath, voicing what the other two were thinking.

Gertrude spread her hands towards the trapdoor, and Jon looked at her dubiously, but gently pulled on the handle. It opened. Martin froze. How could it be open? Gertrude made her way down first, quickly and silently as before.

Jon didn’t even look back, poising himself to follow.

“Jon! No!” Martin’s voice echoed in the stillness of the hallway, panic coloring his tone, but Jon didn’t so much as flinch. He disappeared down, the door silently swinging shut behind him.

There was a fumbling of fabric again, the hardened form of Tim shoving his way past the other two and his phone’s torch casting harsh light over the stacks as he rushed towards the trapdoor. Sasha and Martin were quick to follow, but they all knew with a sinking feeling what they would find.

Tim pulled on the handle, shook the lock, hammered a frustrated fist against the wood.

“Locked,” he announced, looking on the verge of a panic. “How can it be locked? We just _watched_ him go down there, how is it locked?”

“Tim, c’mon, we’ll find a key,” Sasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Martin didn’t miss the shining quality of his eyes.

“I just watched. _Again,_ I just watched,” Tim slammed a fist against the trapdoor again.

Sasha and Martin exchanged a look.

“Let’s go find a key, shall we?”

''

Jonathan Sims did not know where he was.

There was a woman trailing ahead of him – a glowing figure with eyes that did not make sense. There were cement walls, cement floors, and the pressing darkness of tunnels. There was the sound of his footsteps. There were the echoes, almost eerie, almost like another pair of steps.

She did not speak – Gertrude, that is. She looked back at him every so often to make sure he was still there, but no words passed the lips of the glowing figure. Jon did not know if he preferred she speak or not. Jon did not know anything, not about this.

He did not know how long he was down there. He did not know if time moved in the same steady line as it did in the world above. He did not know why his mind made people out of the shadows lurking in corners, why his thoughts turned to a spider from his childhood, why his heart did not beat with the panic he expected. He did not know.

Gertrude stopped.

An archway in a cement wall, a glowing figure hovering in the frame: this is the image that would stick in Jon’s head from this evening. A ghost on the border of the tunnels full of questions and the room full of answers Jon wished he could forget. She did not look back at him before disappearing inside. Jon didn’t know why she didn’t look back. She always looked back.

Jon stepped into the room, and the ghost was gone. The room, square and small, however, was not empty.

A chair, cardboard boxes, and a flickering electric lantern left on. (Did the ghost turn it on? Jon didn’t know.) Cassettes – everywhere, cassettes, littering the tops of boxes and the floor and in piles in the corners and – and a singular tape player sat on the chair. Jon’s eyes trailed over the mess, the tapes and the cardboard and the cement walls and floors and – and –

Blood.

Old and dry, more brown than red now, but it was definitely blood. It covered the chair (oozing, Jon could picture blood oozing from a wounded figure sat in that cha-) and splattered behind the chair (impact, bullets, spraying from the exit wound, was that, was that it, is this-).

Jon stared, heart both frozen in his chest and hammering away and his face felt numb, his whole body felt numb because this wasn’t – _couldn’t_ be real but – blood, there was so much blood, whose blood was –

_Click._

_Sloshing liquid. A door swinging open on rusted hinges._

_“Gertrude.”_

That was Elias’s voice coming from the tape player. The tape player that Jon had not turned on and yet was playing – the tape player on the chair covered in _blood_ whose blood whose blood –

_“Damn.”_

_“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”_

Gertrude. That had to be Gertrude’s voice. Jon had only briefly seen the woman when she was Head Archivist, only heard her voice in clipped tones as she passed him in the halls of the institute, but he knew it had to be her voice he heard speaking with Elias.

_“You were the one so…insistent on staying human.”_ Elias’s voice crooned from the tape, breaking Jon from his thoughts.

_"And no doubt that makes my death a lot less complicated.”_

What? Jon did not know what this conversation was about. Jon did not know, but he stood before that bloody chair (blood whose blood oh god whose blood) and he listened.

_“How long have you known?”_

_“About your body? Not long after you took your new host and we had our little… chat. It wasn’t exactly a huge leap to the Panopticon after that.”_

None of this made sense. It didn’t make any sense. Jon did not know did not know and there was blood whose blood he had a sinking feeling in his gut whose blood blood blood –

A scraping sound on the tape.

_“Just needs a little spark, and –“_

_Click._ Was that a gun? That couldn’t be a gun – Jon shook, eyes trained on the blood and the tape player and –

_“I see. So you’re finally getting your hands dirty? I must really have caught you off guard.”_

_“I suppose we both got a little complacent. Fifty years is a long time. End of an era.”_

Jon shook. He did not want to hear this – to know this – but he did not know what he did not know and –

_“I’m not really in the mood for nostalgia, Elias. You might have noticed I’m rather busy so either shoot me or –“_

_Bang._ _A gasp._

_“ Well… there it is. Thought it would hurt more.”_

_“…Pity.”_

_Click._

The tape shut off. Jon stared at the blood. Gertrude’s blood. Fuck, Gertrude Robinson’s blood. Bile rose in his throat.

Elias killed Gertrude in this very room. Elias – but what was all that about bodies? And Elias is only fifty or some odd years himself, how could – why is fifty years the end of an era? Why did he kill her? He _killed_ her, Elias –

Jon turned and emptied the contents of his stomach against the wall, shock and confusion and the exertion of being sick making him brace against the biting cold cement or risk falling. He did not understand.

He briefly looked back at the chair, the blood (blood blood blood Gertrude’s blood holy shit holy shi), the _tape_.

None of this made sense.

‘’

They waited, and waited, and waited. Martin was a little sick of waiting.

“Martin.”

“Sasha.”

“ _Martin._ ”

“What?”

“Please tell me you did not pick the lock of Elias’s office to get that.”

Martin blinked, still holding up the newly procured key. “I mean I _could_ tell you that, if you wanted?”

Tim laughed at that – a welcomed sound when not ten minutes ago he’d still been panicking in the corner of their shared office.

It had been almost an hour, and there was still no sign of Jon. Tim seemed acutely afraid in a way Martin had not seen before, although Sasha seemed to understand on some level Martin had no context for. Sasha and Tim had been trying to come up with some sort of brutal bust-in plan to save Jon from an evil ghost in the tunnels, but Martin figured if there were a key to their locked tunnel door, the Head of the Institute’s office would be a good place to start searching. Having scampered off a good twenty minutes previous, he’d returned with the key in hand and a smugness in having obtained it.

Sasha sighed. “Oh, alright,” she stood from her desk. “C’mon, then, let’s go get our boy,”

This was how the trio of assistants found themselves back in the stacks, Sasha leading with a torch, Tim clutching her sleeve in one hand and Martin’s sleeve in his other, and Martin taking up the rear, key clutched tight in his palm. It seemed less hellish like this, headed towards something hopeful rather than following an unknown. Martin did not pause to consider that it was still an unknown – that they didn’t really know what they were headed towards – if Jon was okay.

They approached the aisle with the trapdoor and the now rumpled, overturned rug. The lock sat soundly in place. Martin dug the key deeper into the flesh of his palm.

Sasha hesitated as they came closer, and for a moment Martin almost did not realize the sound coming from the door. Echoing footsteps, sounds of far off words, possibly wind came muffled through the wood of the door. Martin carefully leant down next to the door, Sasha shining a light for him. He exchanged glances with Tim and then Sasha and brought the key to the lock, giving a slow twist and hearing the _click_ of it unlocking. Taking a deep breath, he removed the padlock from the door and gave a gentle tug to the handle.

He did not expect something to be pushing up at the same time he pulled.

Martin yelped for the second time of the night, shoving himself back from the door and scrambling until his back hit one of the shelves. Tim and Sasha both skittered away a good few feet as well, and the three of them stared at the thin figure poking his head out of the trapdoor. Through the haze of panic, Martin’s mind began to put together the familiar features of a particular archivist.

“Jon?!” Sasha processed faster than the others, throwing herself towards the trapdoor and fussing over the man attempting to pull himself out. “Are you okay? What happened? You look like shit, what-“

Jon climbed the rest of the way out of the hole, accepting aid from a still babbling Sasha. He held something in his hand, for a moment, but as Sasha fussed Martin watched the object disappear into his jacket pocket, hidden from sight with no attention called to it. When Martin looked up at Jon’s face, he was looking back at him, eyes wary but also warning. Martin nodded subtly, instead just watching as Jon was almost knocked over by the force of Tim gripping his shoulders and checking him over for signs of hurt.

Something happened. Martin’s stomach sank. Holy shit, something _happened_ , hadn’t it?

Jon locked eyes with him again, brief, just a flash of a glance, but in that one look, Martin knew he was right.

Next would come tea in the breakroom, watching the clock turn three, listening intently as Jon told the tale. Half-truths, all of it, Martin knew. The story boiled down succinctly into “I followed her, she disappeared, and I stumbled my way back to the entrance to the archives.” But the way he trembled as he spoke, the way his hand had not left his pocket, the way he kept looking to the doorway as though expecting to see a ghost, Martin knew there was more than he was telling.

It neared four by time the group made to leave for home, Jon (less begrudgingly than expected) telling them he did not expect to see them the following morning until after eleven at earliest.

Martin clutched his car keys in his fingers as he watched the archival team pick up and prepare to go home, Tim throwing his car keys to Sasha with an exasperated “You get me as far as your house and I’ll be fine” and Jon shrugging his bag over his shoulder.

“Jon,” Martin watched Jon jump at the sound of his name. “C’mon, you aren’t going on the tube like that. Let me give you a ride.”

Martin ignored the eyebrow raise Sasha gave him as her and Tim made their way upstairs. Jon sputtered for a moment.

“That’s not necessary, Martin, th-thank you, thou-“

“Please, Jon, just let me do this,” Martin’s tone edged into something a little too honest, and he snapped his mouth shut. Slowly, though, Jon nodded.

Martin did not fail to notice Jon slide the trapdoor key into his pocket before they left.

‘’

T he car ride was silent save for a few “Left here”s or “Right at the signal”s. Martin did not push, and Jon did not speak, and so the white noise of a sleeping London filled the car.

Martin pulled up to Jon’s building at nearly half past four. He expected Jon to leave the car with the same silence as before, hand still shoved into his pocket, eyes still wild and wary, but as Martin put the car into park Jon did not move.

For a moment, they sat in silence, both men looking out the windshield of Martin’s little commuter car, neither commenting on the night’s events or the arrival at Jon’s flat. Then, Jon took a steady, quiet breath.

“Can you keep a secret, Martin?” Jon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it sounded too loud in the quiet of the idling car. Martin looked to him, eyes trailing over the profile of Jon’s face, tracing the sharp cheekbones and watery gaze still fixed on some nonexistent point in front of the car.

“Of course.”

Jon turned to Martin, eyes meeting his. He did not flinch away from the gaze.

“Gertrude is dead.”

“We saw her ghost, Jon,” Martin nodded, ignoring the twinge of horror at the confidence in Jon’s statement. “What do you have in your pocket?”

Slowly, Jon withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket to reveal a slim, black cassette tape. It was not labeled, but it looked just like every other tape found in the Magnus Institute. “She led me to this. It was playing when I walked in.”

“Walked in where, Jon?” Martin shifted in his seat so he could face Jon properly, fingers itching to reach out and comfort, to wipe the tears gathering in his eyes. “What happened? What was on the tape?”

A quiet, desperate sob bubbled from Jon’s lips, his entire body trembling.

“Something is very, _very_ wrong about the institute, Martin,” Jon took a breath. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Martin reached out, gently taking hold of the hand Jon did not have wrapped around the tape. Jon’s thin fingers clutched Martin’s rounder ones like a vice. Tears fell from his eyes (his eyes, _oh_ his eyes).

He took a shaking breath. “I don’t know what to do.”


	2. 2. beggar that i am

Jonathan Sims knew three things and three things only.

One. Someone had made a delivery to the archive. A table and a lighter, both intricately designed, both supposedly delivered to the institute for Jon himself. The table had a hypnotic design to it, all spirals and curves leading towards the center recess of the thing. Jon had sent it to artefact storage almost immediately, the statement of Amy Patel flashing in his mind, but the lighter – the web designed, zippo lighter – it sat in his pocket next to a pack of cigarettes these days. Two weeks since the events of the tunnel, and Jon had fallen back on old (bad, bad, always bad) habits.

Two. Everybody hated him. That night Martin drove him home, Jon told him everything. Martin listened intently, worried, but at the end only asked if Jon was okay, if he needed anything, if he thought he needed to not be alone. Charming as Martin could sometimes be in that kind bumbling way of his, Jon could tell that Martin thought he was going crazy. Jon’s dodgy attitude about the entire ghost and tunnel situation had Sasha and Tim feeling sore, asking questions that Jon simply would not answer, but Jon didn’t – he couldn’t – he did not know how to explain to them that something was happening. Telling Martin wasn’t planned – hell, Jon wished more than anything he could’ve saved his breakdown for Tim if anyone, but as it was Martin was apparently the one in this with him now. All the others knew was he got lost in the tunnels for the better part of two hours and came out shaky and confused.

Three. Gertrude Robinson was dead and Elias Bouchard killed her. This fact was probably the hardest one to confront, but Jon had been sitting with this knowledge for two weeks, been venturing down into the depths of the tunnels for two weeks, been listening to tape after tape in that shrine of a room for two weeks, and so confront it he did. Many of the tapes in the strange blood-splattered room were distorted, some blank, others still just statements not unlike the ones Jon recorded day-to-day for his own job as archivist, but Jon had heard enough to figure out that Gertrude Robinson was certainly dead, Elias Bouchard had certainly killed her, and Elias Bouchard was certainly _not_ who he claimed to be.

Jon toyed with the lighter in his pocket, itching for another cigarette.

Yes, something was very wrong.

Jon needed to know what.

‘’

Melanie King liked her job. She liked making videos, exploring the supernatural, finding the thrills in the world and sharing that thrill with others. She liked it quite a bit, actually. But then there was that night at Cambridge Military Hospital and her crew beginning to slowly crumble and… well, her job had gotten a little more difficult. But it was fine.

She just needed new angles.

This was how she ended up in the library of the Magnus Institute, consuming all she could about grey ladies and monsters and unexplained phenomena. Some of the other researchers seemed to hold her in contempt, eyeing her ripped jeans and dip-dyed hair, but she ignored the brash looks; others saw her presence as some sort of invitation to chat her up about ghost she’d already heard of or (god help her) ask her to drinks.

The only one she’d said yes to thus far was Sasha.

In the past two weeks, she’d found herself at the pub down the street with Sasha James a total of three times, once joined by a boisterous and suggestive Tim Stoker, once with a meek Martin Blackwood, and once just the two girls. One-on-one, Sasha seemed to blush more often than not, but after the third rather complimentary comment about Georgie she seemed to cool down – not that there was anything going on with Georgie. (Not yet, at least. Melanie could dream, though.)

Melanie King liked her job – she wanted to reiterate that. She _liked_ YouTube and her fans, the production process and the thrill of hosting, the subtle fame of it, but with Sarah Baldwin and the figure still fresh in her mind, she was starkly aware that something larger was afoot.

And so, she studied, day after day, book after book.

Something was very wrong. Melanie needed to know what

‘’

The hour was late. Past midnight. Midnight midnight midnight and the ghost had not reappeared.

Jon was the only one there in the archives, having told the others (lied to the others lied lied lied why do you always fucking lie, Jon) that they should go home, not worry about him, he’d go home after this file. It had been weeks, anyways, and probably nothing would happen, but he so desperately needed something to happen, something to make this make sense because none of this made sense and he needed to know.

He needed to know.

No ghost, though, so nothing to interrupt his work. He poured over statements, reading and taking notes of Gertrude’s research and the crude mentions of the institute or a panopticon or – or – _anything_ but it all just turned into words, words, words and Jon was surrounded by pieces of paper and words and notes and tapes and _words and words and words and –_

He needed help. He needed someone to help so desperately, but no one could, he knew. Nobody could save him from this, whatever _this_ was.

This.

It was all just words.

Words and words and words.

‘’

“Something’s up with Jon,” Tim stormed into the archival assistant office on a Thursday morning, voice quiet as to not be overheard, shutting the door firmly behind him. He was tense, hackles raised, and looking not unlike a mistrustful puppy. Martin and Sasha peered up from their work, taking in the disheveled appearance of one Timothy Stoker.

“Did you fight him or something? You look like a mess,” Sasha rolled back in her office chair, clearly putting work out of mind in favor of the man before her.

Tim looked down at his appearance and scoffed. “No, I did not fight our boss, Sasha. Excuse me for not gussying up for work one time in my life,” Tim plopped into his own desk chair. “Couldn’t sleep last night.”

“And you said Jon had something to do with that?" Sasha raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into a smirk. Martin squeaked at the implication.

“God, will you –“ Tim rubbed a tired hand across his face. He paused, looked between his two coworkers. “Jon called me last night.”

“Oh? Well that’s good, isn’t it?” Sasha rolled her chair a little closer to Tim’s desk. “I mean, he’s been pretty shut up since the Gertrude thing.”

“I mean, sure, yeah,” Tim shoved a hand through his hair. “But he didn’t talk about the Gertrude thing or the ‘went missing in spooky locked tunnels’ thing. He wanted to talk about _Smirke’s_ _architecture_.”

“Oh God,” Martin groaned at the same time Sasha let out a lightly unkind laugh.

Sasha looked at him earnestly. “You know we love you Tim, but no one would - nor should - get you talking about architecture, especially not Smirke’s architecture.”

“That’s what I’m saying! I can tell when I’m being a right nuisance despite what you people seem to think, and Smirke’s definitely one of those things that makes me a nuisance. Jon’s always had a higher infodump tolerance than you two, admittedly, but to openly welcome it?” Tim exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. “And get this: he asked if Elias had ever talked to me about any of the Smirke stuff. Elias ‘suit and tie dress code’ Bouchard indulging me on whatever the hell spooky facts he’s got in his head? It’s laughable, really.”

“Okay, so that’s weird, I’ll give you that,” Martin piped up. “But I wouldn’t call it something to lose sleep over exactly?”

Tim’s face turned cloudy, and he looked down at his hands. “He uh,” he paused, gathering his words. “He asked me if I felt safe.”

“Felt safe?”

“At the institute,” Tim clarified. “With the ghosts and the statements and – and him. Of course I said yes, but-“ he seemed to stop himself from saying something else, Martin couldn’t help but notice. “I told him yes.”

The words settled over them for a few handful of moments, and Martin mused over what hadn’t been said. He knew that Jon hadn’t told the others the whole truth – why he hadn’t, Martin had no idea. Hell, Martin wasn’t even sure that what Jon described _was_ the truth, but Jon seemed rather convinced that he’d uncovered some sort of murder mystery including their spooky boss and Gertrude Robinson in some supernatural scheme. He could only imagine that Jon had included something about a panopticon – that word had found itself into Jon’s ramblings enough that Martin had gone and looked up the definition after Jon finally got out of the car.

“You should go and talk to him – try and get him to open up about the tunnels,” Sasha’s voice broke the tilted silence. “You’ve been friends with him the longest out of any of us, and I think we can agree that he needs the support right now.”

Tim laughed at that, guttural and visceral and _hurt_. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sash, but I’ve been trying.”

Sasha sighed. “I know.”

Martin, not for the first time, wondered why Jon told him anything. Why tell blundering, idiotic Martin when clever Sasha and trustworthy Tim were both ready and willing to help? Why tell Martin who can’t even believe the whole truth as Jon tells it?

Why him?

‘’

Jon was making a mistake. He was fully aware of this – he could feel the creeping sensation of – of something crawling up his neck all day, but he still went. He still waited for the others to go home, for the sounds of the institute above to dwindle to nothing, and he made his way to the trapdoor.

Climbing down the ladder into the tunnels was becoming familiar, he realized. He clutched his water bottle in one hand and a torch in his other and took in the familiar dead end where the entrance to the archives sat. He cast the beam of light over the empty takeout containers, the strewn about papers, the old worn out plaque declaring “THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE” with an arrow pointing up, and – _oh_ , and there was something new in the little rectangle of the institute’s dead end.

Blood (whose blood blood blo). A trail of blood, patchy but thick as though something had been dragged to or from the entrance. The something in question, though, was nowhere to be seen.

Jon had been down into the tunnels almost a dozen times in the past two weeks, venturing down with his necessary supplies to sit in Gertrude’s death room and listen to shitty tapes, but nothing about the tunnels ever seemed to change from day to day.

Not until now.

And, well, in the face of a mysterious trail of blood, what’s a man to do?

He began to walk, following the trail. He passed doors, passed the room of Gertrude’s death, passed divides in the tunnels and four way junctions and archways and –

He swore he could hear footsteps – behind him or in front of him, he doesn’t know.

He passed other trapdoors labeled with street names and an entrance to the London underground and - and the room of Gertrude’s death and –

The walls stopped making sense, the trail of blood seemingly endless, and Jon peered into that room full of tapes and blood (Gertrude’s blood). Checking his watch, Jon found that hours had gone by and the time neared almost one in the morning. Was he going in circles? He had already passed this room.

Deciding once and for all that coming down tonight was a mistake, Jon began to make his way back to the entrance to the archives. The trail of blood went right along with him which didn’t make sense but – had, had he really gone in a circle?

The closer he got to the archives, the sharper the air began to smell. Iron and stale, but also rancid, the scent filled his nose and his head and his every thought. It did not make sense, and nothing about this trail of blood made sense, so he just had to get back into the archives and then he could go to bed on the cot in the extra office and – and-

And his torch light shone over the ladder to the archives, the plaque declaring “THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE”, and the trash littering the ground and – and –

Jon halted in his tracks, the scent of rot and iron stronger than it had been before, the source of the scent propped up against the wall next to the ladder. There against the wall, black, oozing hole in her stomach, and black, empty sockets where her eyes once sat, was a corpse of a woman who’d been missing for the better part of two months.

There was something Jon knew. He knew Gertrude Robinson was dead. To know this and to have it confirmed in the flesh was… different, to say the least.

When asked later on, Jon would not be able to recount which happened first: his water bottle hitting the floor, his scream finding its way out of his lungs, or his hand hitting the bottom rung of the ladder as he scrambled away away away.

''

**ALERT: In Memory of Gertrude Robinson  
** From: Elias Bouchard (boucharde@magnusinstitutelondon.org.uk)  
To: [All Institute Staff] [All Volunteers]

Hello all,

It is my unfortunate place to inform the institute of the passing of previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson. Details of her death are not yet released as the investigation is ongoing, but her body was found and identified last night. At this time, we ask all staff to refrain from commenting on the case unless directly asked by law enforcement.

There will be a small institute memorial tomorrow at noon. Details of the funeral will be shared once they are set. For those finding it hard to cope with this news, I invite you to reach out to colleagues or myself. Ms. Robinson was a dear friend of mine and many others in the institute, and no shame nor punishment will go to those needing time to cope. Supervisors are encouraged to prioritize the wellbeing of their people over workload especially in the wake of this tragedy.

Take care,

Elias Bouchard  
Head of the Magnus Institute, London

''

“Did you know Miss Robinson well?”

Elias Bouchard stared at the two women across from him. It was four in the morning, a trembling archivist sat outside his office with a shock blanket and a mug of tea, and he had just written the one email he hoped he wouldn’t have to send. He did not know how to answer that, not really.

“She’s worked here longer than I have,” was the closest to the truth he could say. He watched PC Tonner scrawl a note down in her notebook, PC Hussain nodding at his answer as though he’d said something of worth. “She kept to herself in the later years, didn’t take any more assistants, worked with a small handful of others, but she didn’t talk to anyone from the institute all that often.”

“And did you know about the existence of the tunnels?” PC Hussain asked, eyes steady on him.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “I admit it’s not a very well-kept secret that the institute has connections to the architect Robert Smirke. The tunnels are a remnant of his work. I’ve only gone down there once to confirm their existence, but the key has been in my desk since I got this job. I don’t even know how Jon got a hold of it.”

“When was the last time you had the key in your possession?” PC Tonner looked up from her notes.

Elias let out a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair. “I honestly can’t tell you. I go in that drawer often enough for keys, but I didn’t even notice that particular set was gone until Jon told me he had them – and no, again, I don’t know how or why Jon had them.”

PC Tonner continued to scribble into her notebook. PC Hussain just continued to stare at him -Elias may have taken a moment to ensure she was not Eye aligned with the intensity she stared at him with.

“Is that all the questions, then?” Elias asked, shifting (not fidgeting, definitely not fidgeting) under PC Hussain’s gaze.

“For now, yes,” PC Tonner snapped her notebook shut.

“Right then,” Elias looked between them. “I hoped you two would work closely with Jon on this case. He’s a sharp man, and he probably knows the most about the tunnels with all the messing about he’s apparently done down there.” Well, if he didn’t count himself, that was true, wasn’t it? “However, I do understand that his place in this case is an odd one. I don’t know why he had that key nor why he was in the tunnels.”

The two policewomen looked at each other. “Of course, we’ll keep an eye on him.” PC Hussain assured him.

Elias nodded. “Good. Good.”

He could sense this was the beginning of a very long tale.

‘’

Martin woke up earlier than usual to two emails from Elias. One was a general announcement regarding the death of one Gertrude Robinson, the other was just to the archive staff regarding Jonathan Sims and a body.

To say Martin was out the door before the email was fully read would be an exaggeration, but it was a near thing.

The hour had just turned seven when Martin bumbled up the steps of the institute, knocking on the door until the janitor finally let him in. From there it was a brisk walk down the stairs into the archives.

Voices came from Jon’s office at the end of the hall, dozens overlapping and tinny and – and something was wrong. Martin approached the heavy wooden door. The voices grew louder and Martin knew very suddenly that there was no one in that office with Jon. Slowly, he opened the door and the cacophony of noise became deafening.

Tapes. Dozens and dozens of tapes played idly about the office, voices of scared victims and shell-shocked survivors and an old deceased Archivist. One tape played on Jon’s desk, the man in question staring intently at it, hands clutched in his hair, eyes bloodshot, lips moving quickly and small as though muttering beneath the sound of the tapes.

_“Yeah, I know, I know. And I don’t want your job.”_

_“Believe me, the perks aren’t worth the shackles.”_

Martin stepped into the room, his heart beating quicker in his chest. Even, steady steps to Jon’s desk –

_“What happens if we fail?”_

_“In… what sense?”_

Shaking, fearful hands reached out, one landing on Jon’s shoulder and –

_“If we miss a ritual; you know – if one of th-“_

And the other hand clicking off the tape sat in the middle of the desk. All at once, the sounds pouring from the tapes ceased, leaving only them behind: Jon, eyes still pinned to the tape and tears now idly falling from his eyes, and Martin, slowly and gently kneeling next to Jon’s chair, quietly calling his name.

In the newfound silence, Martin could hear the mutterings falling from Jon’s lips.

“Words and words and words and –“

Martin wrapped his arms around Jon, gently pulling the man’s head to his shoulder. Jon, crumbling, pulled his hands from his hair and instead clutched to the back of Martin’s flannel, still chattering on and on –

“Words, words, words.”

Martin shot off a text to Tim and Sasha, gathered up the trembling man in his arms, and drove him home, thoughts spiraling in his head of concern and Elias’s email and the tapes and, yes. Yes, words and words, indeed. Words and words and words.

‘’

_Knock knock_.

Sasha James was many things, but a coward had never been one of them. The two emails from Elias this morning alongside the panicked text from Martin and fearful voicemail from Tim was certainly a way to start a morning, and in light of these things she had half a mind to stay in bed. Gertrude was dead. Sasha took a deep breath and decided that could be processed later. One call to a confused and concerned Tim and another to a fussing Martin had led her here come noon, fist poised over the heavy wooden door of one Elias Bouchard’s door.

“Come in!” came the rumbling voice from within.

Sasha took a deep breath, adjusted the sleeves of her cardigan, and did just that.

Elias’s office wasn’t anything grand, all things considered. It was spacious, sure, and the view of the Institute’s courtyard was certainly nice, but for all the pomp and circumstance the man tried to imbue into his very being, the office was devoid of the expected status symbols. In all truth, the only real personal touches in the office at all were a singular framed photo on the desk positioned such that Sasha couldn’t see who or what was displayed, and an aged photo on the bookshelf of a much younger Elias on the front steps of the Institute. Sasha had been in the room exactly twice before: to interview for the job in artefact storage, and the subsequent interview to get _out_ of artefact storage. In the years since both those events, little had changed about the room, nor about the man sat behind the desk.

Elias typed away at his computer, a deep crease between his eyebrows. Sasha stepped fully into the room, and waited. Hands pausing on the keyboard, Elias’s eyes (he had rather odd eyes, didn’t he?) trailed over the screen one last time before he clicked once, twice on his mouse, and leaned back in his seat to smile tiredly at his guest.

“Miss James, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Elias greeted her, extending a hand to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Sasha sat, hands resting in her lap. She was not, nor had she ever been a coward, and she _could_ have this conversation with this man who she knew disliked her, or at very least didn’t respect her enough to give her the job she was promised. She could do this. “Yes. I’m sure you’re very busy, but I just, I wanted to come to you about Jon.”

“What about Jon?” Elias leaned forward, elbows on his desk and fingers steepled together as he looked down his nose at her. (Not down his nose, Sasha. He’s just a tall man, is all.)

“Well, the email you sent the archival staff this morning for one,” Sasha found herself saying, anger suddenly (finally, finally) rising to the front of her mind. “Jon found a body this morning in his place of work – the body of the _woman he replaced_ , and you had the mind to email the institute and his assistants, but not to make sure Jon found his way home after all that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Martin came in this morning to find him having some sort of mental breakdown in his office, Elias,” Sasha felt out of body, hearing herself chide the _Head of the Institute_ for ignoring the emotional needs of the emotionally stunted Jonathan Sims. “Lord knows that man was hanging on by a thread before finding her, what with that mess of an archive she left behind. I had hoped with you being an example of leadership in the institute, you would consider the trauma Jon undoubtedly just went through.”

“That’s quite enough, Miss James,” Elias snipped, and Sasha felt the fires in her chest go out in an instant. _Holy shit_. “Despite what you seem to think, I did encourage Jon to go home after the police were done talking to him. Jon is a grown man, and he said he would rather not, and that he would like to stay and get some work done. I assured him I wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon and let him cope however he saw fit. I admit I should have checked in on him, but as I’m sure you can tell, I have been rather busy trying to juggle a panicking staff, belligerent sponsors, and a police investigation. So please, _Miss James_ , let me be the first to apologize for Jon’s current predicament, but I will not apologize for doing my job.”

Sasha wrung her hands in her lap, cheeks glowing with embarrassment. “Sorry, I’m – that was out of line for me to say, I’m sorry,” Sasha’s voice held none of the anger or fire it had previously held. “I just – I’m worried for Jon. He isn’t well. And, if I’m being honest, I haven’t – I mean, I didn’t – Gertrude was -” Sasha cut herself off. “No, there’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Elias sighed, sitting back in his chair again, the fight draining from him before Sasha’s very eyes. “I am not going to argue with you on your point about Jon. I do apologize for not taking proper precautions regarding his state, and I will keep an eye on him going forward,” he bartered. “Thank you for bringing your concerns to me, really. I’m glad he has a staff willing to look out for him.”

Sasha nodded, feeling like maybe she wasn’t about to get fired for chewing out her boss. “I’ll keep an eye out as well. Let you know if I notice him getting any worse.”

“Please do,” Elias nodded.

Silence wavered between them for a moment then, and Sasha wanted to fill it with questions – questions like “ _Were you and Gertrude really friends_?” and “ _Why did you give Jon that job_?” and “ _What are those tunnels_?” – but she instead awkwardly stood. “Thank you for your time, and – again, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over m-“

“It’s fine, Miss James, really,” Elias stood as well, walking her to the door. “I understand that tensions are rather high right now. Please make sure to look after yourself as well in all this, alright?”

“Sure,” Sasha agreed hollowly, stepping out of his office. “You too.”

Elias gave her another weary smile, nodded, and closed the door behind her.

Sasha took a deep breath, and went back to work.

‘’

[[ AUG. 7th, 2015  
[[12:54 am  
[[Missed Call from Tim Stoker]  
[[1:02 am  
[[YOU: Can you please not drunk call me for just one Friday night? Please? ]]

Martin had left an hour ago. Jon laid in bed, curled in on himself, ignoring the texts still coming in from various institute staff offering platitudes of grief that were just thinly veiled invitations for gossip. Instead, he found himself reading though messages sent by a different, younger Jonathan Sims to the same Timothy Stoker that had called him several times throughout the day, left several worried voicemails that were too honest to be begging for gossip.

Tim used to have a habit of calling Jon in the late hours of the evening back in the research days, voice slurring and stories looping as he went on about the bar he had just left or the attractive young thing he hadn’t been able to bring home for the night. On the occasions Jon did not pick up, Tim would text him instead.

[[Tim: thas no fun tho  
[[Tim: doo yo like theatre jon?  
[[YOU: I suppose.  
[[Tim: good good.  
[[YOU: Why?  
[[Tim: doubt the stars are fire, bitch  
[[YOU: I happen to know that the stars actually are fire, though. Hydrogen and helium as well.  
[[Tim: doubt the sun fuckin moves  
[[YOU: All the planets move, Tim.  
[[TIM: doubt the truth, make it lie  
[[YOU: You’re more coherent than you usually are by this time. Are you alright?  
[[Tim: but never doubt me jon. never. ]]

Jon remembers calling Tim that night. He was crying when he picked up, and Jon spent the night listening to him ramble on about nothing and everything. It was the anniversary of Danny’s death. He knew that now, but at the time he simply didn’t know what to do with his friend’s tears.

He stared at that last message. Never doubt me. He found himself hitting the call button before he could process his own actions.

Jon didn’t doubt him, and so Tim picked up.

''

Basira Hussain and Alice “Daisy” Tonner stood in Jon’s office. Jon, however, sat.

Martin hadn’t wanted Jon to come in today. The man had fussed and fussed when he saw Jon come down the stairs into the archives, but Jon simply exchanged glances with Tim and went to his office. He hadn’t gotten all that much accomplished, true, but he’d come into the place that he had found a dead body the night previous, so small victories and all that, as they say.

But then, come noon, there was a knock at his door, and instead of Martin with his tea or Tim with his jokes or Sasha with her questions, there were two women with badges.

Jon would’ve much preferred the tea.

As it was, Jon was sat staring at the two policewomen, politely offering them the chairs on the other side of his desk for the fifth time.

“Elias told us you could be of some help with the tunnels,” PC Hussain said, deadpan. Jon cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I don’t know why he would’ve told you that, I’ve only been down a few times.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “He also had no idea where you got the key to the tunnels.”

Jon shriveled at the unspoken accusation in that statement.

PC Tonner shot her partner a look before moving her gaze to Jon. “Right. So, we’re working with you on this, apparently,” she turned her gaze to Jon, and a shock of fear went through his bones. “You can call her Basira –“ she pointed to the other woman with a badge and hijab. “And I’m Daisy. We’re going to be around the institute gathering intel, but Gertrude spent most of her time down here and was found near the entrance to this place, so we’re going to be in the archives quite a bit.”

Jon nodded earnestly. “If there’s anything I can do –“

“We’ll let you know, yes,” Daisy cut him off. “Is there anything you have for us right off the bat?”

Jon had a drawer full of tapes is what he had, but to explain where those came from, he’d have to explain the room with Gertrude’s blood.

“I don’t think so. I mean, I told you what I saw yesterday.” Jon took a breath. “Just. This isn’t a normal place, alright? I know what kind of stories get passed around about the institute, but the truth is just that it’s not normal.”

Daisy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Right.”

Basira continued to stare. Jon fidgeted in his seat. He did not know how to explain to her what he’d found. He didn’t know if _he_ knew the truth of what he’d found.

‘’

“Jon!” Sasha’s voice was a cheery burst of color in the dreary archives. Jon looked up from locking his office door, startled by the woman poking her head out of the archival assistant office. “Are you out of here for the day, then?”

“Ah, yes,” Jon straightened, feeling almost caught despite it being well past four pm. “Was there something you needed before I left?”

Sasha came fully out of the office, leaning against the doorframe. “No, no, I just,” she smiled at him, although it looked forced even to him. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I saw those two police in your office earlier.”

“They were just doing some follow up,” Jon wasn’t inclined to offer much more in the way of details. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Sashas smile waned slightly. “If you need anything, Jon, we’re here,” she fidgeted in her seemingly relaxed posture against the door frame. “Tim told me you called him last night?”

Jon scoffed slightly at that. “And I’m sure he told you I was acting crazy?”

“Jon-“

“No, it’s fine,” Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I know, okay? I know. Odds are I probably am crazy.”

“Tim told me you wanted to go back into the tunnels,” Sasha said it like an accusation, her well-meaning vibe slipping for an instant. “You won’t tell us what’s happened down there, and you still want to go back.”

“Sasha, I need you to trust me on this, alright? There’s something going on here and I just-“

“If there’s something going on, then let us _help_ , Jon,” Sasha took a step towards him.

“Or you could just let me help _you_ , Sasha – all of you.”

Sasha’s mouth snapped shut at that, big worried eyes fixed on Jon. The man was trembling ever so slightly, hand clutching the strap of his messenger bag, eyes cast on the floor. Sasha James was not a coward, remember, but she didn’t always know how to be brave. Something about Jon – Jon, with his half-truths and frayed nerves and seeing eyes – it was… it was scary, and Sasha didn’t know how to combat that fear.

It was then that Martin came down the hall from the stacks. He approached as he approached any situation, hunched over as though he was guilty for merely existing. Sasha smiled at him as he stopped a few feet from them. He awkwardly returned the smile, but his eyes flickered to Jon.

“Are you headed out?” he asked. Jon startled lightly, seemingly surprised by the notion of being noticed at all.

“Y-Yes.”

“I was just about to do so myself. Want a ride?” Martin had been offering that more and more lately, Sasha noticed. In any other world, she would tease the man relentlessly for it – probably both of them, honestly – but not in this one.

“Uh, sure, if – if that’s no trouble,” Jon said it as though Martin had begrudged him for it before, which he hadn’t.

“Not at all,” Martin smiled one of those soft, worried smiles at Jon before looking back to Sasha. She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he blushed lightly.

“Well, I’ve a bit of work to finish up,” Sasha met Jon’s eyes briefly before turning to head back to her desk. “Have fun boys. Behave.”

Before she slipped into the office, she couldn’t help but notice Jon blush.

''

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon leaned his head against the window of Martin’s passenger side window watching the lights of the city stream by. The sounds of a steady gentle rain with the even beat of the windshield wipers had him halfway to asleep.

“Why haven’t you told the others?” Martin’s voice was as gentle as the white noise about him and something in that disarmed Jon, maybe, or the sleep fog that hung over his mind or – or maybe not. Either way, what slipped from his lips was just –

“I don’t know. I have you, I guess.”

Martin was silent. Jon pulled himself from the sights of the soggy streets, looking to Martin – Martin with his eyes still fixed to the road, cheeks dusted with pink. Jon felt warmth rise to his own face.

“I mean – I get that this, whatever this is, it’s – it could be dangerous,” Jon instantly tried to backtrack, feeling embarrassment flood over him. “And really, I shouldn’t have gotten you involved as much as I have and I- I’m sorry for that, but. But you’ve been, you’ve been _good_ , Martin. I, uh, I’m glad I told you.”

Martin was blushing even more when Jon looked back to him, but there was a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice sheepish but still so endearingly soft. “I’m glad I’m in this with you, too.”

Silence lapsed between the two of them again, both looking out the windshield as the streets began to shift from shops into apartment complexes.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft again.

“Martin,” Jon parroted back in a tone that was decidedly kind.

“Have you ever thought about quitting?”

Jon looked to Martin again and found his features set in a deep frown. “Quitting?” Jon asked.

“Just, with the ghost and then the body – I mean, it’d be normal to consider it,” Martin’s eyes flickered to Jon, gauging his reaction.

Jon leaned back in his seat, watching the streetlights come and go. The answer was no, really -something was going on, and Jon needed to know what. Quitting hadn’t seemed like a possibility. But with Martin’s question ringing in his ears, Jon realized –

“There is nothing I’d rather do away with than this job,” the truth spilled from his lips like a seeping poison. “Except… except my life. Except my life.”

Jon looked to Martin again. The other man, the larger, softer man, was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes glassy. “Then quit, Jon. Don’t – don’t stay because you think you have to or –“

“I’ll think about it,” Jon lied. He knew he couldn’t quit. Not now.

The rest of the drive was silent as Martin pulled up to one of the spots in front of Jon’s building. Jon grabbed his bag and opened the door, sliding into the wet London air. He paused then, looking back into the car at the man who was apparently in this with him – the man who was happy to be in this with him.

Jon doesn’t know why, but he asked “Would you, if you’d want, like to, maybe, come up? I’ve got some more tapes to listen to – if, if you’d like.”

Martin looked at him blankly for a horrifying moment and Jon was ready to backtrack once again, but then Martin nodded. He nodded, cut the engine to his car, smiled slowly.

Jon, already sorting in his head what kind of takeaway Martin might like, blamed his reddened cheeks on the cold this time.

‘’

Martin had never met Gertrude. He’d seen her briefly, as many who worked for the institute could claim, but he had never met her, not really. He wondered who had met her, who’d known her fondly, who was mourning a death they did not understand – a death Martin didn’t understand despite all of Jon’s half-explanations.

The institute’s foyer was not an especially large room, but the staff also wasn’t especially large. Despite these two facts, it felt as though the room were crowded to capacity. Martin didn’t know if it was curiosity or respect or actual grief that drew the crowd of employees to the institute’s odd little memorial service for one Gertrude Robinson. A large formal photo of Gertrude sat at the front of the foyer, roses surrounding it – and Martin idly wondered who was responsible for setting up this morbid little affair – probably Rosie, but who knows?

Elias stood next to the photo at the front as he offered some sort of platitude or eulogy or whatever. Martin wasn’t listening, not really. See, beside him, Jon was stood stock still with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Jon, who Martin had spent the previous evening with, listening to tape after tape of Gertrude and others ramble on about rituals and cults, eating red curry that was one side of too spicy for Martin but one side of too bland for Jon. Martin wondered if Jon was grieving the woman he’d found in the tunnels, the woman he’d been studying for almost the past three weeks, the woman he’d replaced. He wondered if Jon had nightmares.

Tim and Sasha stood on the other side of Jon, seemingly listening better than Martin. Sasha was crying, although she fiercely swatted tears away from her eyes as though she weren’t. She had met Gertrude. She had _liked_ Gertrude even, Martin recalled. She had told him once that Gertrude told her she’d named Sasha as her successor – a naming that Elias promptly ignored. Tim, less effected than Sasha and Jon both, had an arm around Sasha’s waist, gently pressing comforting circles into her waist. Were it any other occasion, any other people, Martin might feel the need to tease, but he knew that was a relationship too muddled to read romance into.

Silently, Jon started, eyes trained on Elias at the front of the room. Martin, seemingly the only one paying attention to the man, followed his gaze to see a smirk dying on Elias’s face but – but no, why would-? What? A quick look to the other employees told him that Jon and him were the only ones to notice the expression.

Jon was slipping his way out of the crowd then, headed for the doors to outside. Martin, sending a gentle thank you to the universe that their little group was already on the edge of the crowd, quickly followed.

When Martin caught up to Jon, he was just outside the door, but he wasn’t alone. That cop – Basira, Martin remembered – she was leant against one of the pillars, eyes boring into an already trembling Jon. Martin shot an apologetic look to the group standing near the door and quickly slipped outside.

“-bit heavy in there, is all,” Basira was saying as Martin stepped outside. Jon dug into his jacket pocket, nearly ignoring her as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “It’s not like any of them know what happened.”

“No, they don’t,” Jon’s lips fumbled over the words as he slid a cigarette into his mouth, shoving the pack back in his pocket and going to light it. Neither seemed to notice Martin silently shutting the door behind him.

“Didn’t realize you were a smoker,” Basira mused, but her tone was clear of judgement. “Cool lighter, though.”

Jon slid his hand with the lighter back into his pocket, using the other to hold the cigarette in his mouth for a long inhale before gently pulling it from his lips, blowing smoke into the cool air. His eyes flickered to Basira. “I know Elias told you to watch me. You and Daisy, that is. You can stop this whole friendly thing you have going – it isn’t working very well, anyway.”

Basira was silent. Jon took another drag of smoke, eyes tracking the cars meandering their way through the streets of Chelsea instead. Martin shuffled near the door, and Basira’s eyes snapped to him. He felt caught for a moment before he realized he was doing nothing wrong.

“Right,” Basira shrugged herself off the wall, looking between the two of them for a moment. “See you then, Jon.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jon muttered into the breeze.

Martin gave Basira wide berth as she went back inside, and for a moment he just stared. The image of Jon on the institute’s steps, cigarette hanging from his lips, bags dark under his eyes. It was beautiful. No, it was _tragic_ , is what it was.

“Jon?” Martin stepped closer, settling next to him. Jon turned to him, plucking the cigarette from his lips again and flicking ash onto the cement stairs.

“You didn’t have to come out here,” Jon looked back to the slow-moving traffic.

Martin scoffed, somewhere between a laugh and a sound of annoyance, but his voice was soft around “Yeah, actually, I did.”

Jon breathed a laugh through his nose, lips twitching up for all of a moment before sliding back into a frown. He fiddled with the smoking roll of tobacco in between his fingers. Tension still hung about him like a curtain, his eyes flicking to every sign of movement on the street. Martin wanted to wrap him up in a blanket or his arms until the tension dissipated, but he knew that wasn’t something he could do.

“What are you thinking?”

Jon did laugh at that one, shaking his head lightly. “I feel like I’m going insane, Martin,” his voice was rough, broken. “I – I _need_ to know that this is real. The ghost and – and the tapes. I need to know I’m not just falling into some trap.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Martin knew with a troubling certainty that Jon had a plan.

“A statement,” Jon’s voice was soft. “Not a real one, but. Statement of whatshername regarding the possession of Elias Bouchard – regarding the feud of Gertrude Robinson – regarding, regarding the fucking end times.”

“Jon-“

“If he reacts,” Jon looked to Martin then, eyes (eyes, those eyes) full of something complex and fearful. “If he so much as flinches, Martin, then it’s – it’s real. All of it. It’s all – it’s all real.”

“Is this safe?” Martin wanted to pull Jon into an embrace, let him shake apart somewhere solid for once. “If it _is_ true, then won’t he just –“

“He will anyway,” Jon laughed. “Or worse. Or so, so much worse.”

“There’s got to be another –“

Jon flicked his cigarette on the ground, grinding it into the cement with the toe of his shoe. “There’s not,” his voice was certain. “There’s not.”

Martin was left staring as Jon disappeared back into the institute, the sounds of employees shuffling back to work spilling from the door as it opened and swung shut.

Martin didn’t know how to help him. Fuck, he didn’t know how to help him.

‘’

Sasha James was not a coward. She was, however, a living breathing human with a heart and an unfortunate connection to a dead woman. Gertrude was dead, and that hadn’t felt real – not even with the ghost (it felt more like some sort of spooky story, then) – until suddenly they were stood in the foyer listening to Elias go on about Gertrude’s service to the institute and her _shining qualities_ and –

It was all bullshit, really. Sasha hadn’t been close to Gertrude, not really, but Gertrude had no assistants, and Sasha was always a reliable source of research. Gertrude had believed in her, wanted her to take her role.

Sasha James was not a coward, but most of the employees of the institute were, so when it got to be too much there was always one place Sasha was certain to be alone: artefact storage. The place was unsettling, sure, but it could always be counted on that crying from the back aisle would be largely ignored by the cowards, and so it did just fine when Sasha needed a good cry.

And so she sat, cardigan tear stained, glasses sat on the ground next to her, form huddled against a shelf, and she grieved.

She grieved a woman who was also not a coward, a position that was denied to her, a friend who was left shambling from the fallout. She mourned the easy days in research, Tim hitting on her and Jon, and then just on Jon after the night-that-shall-not-be-mentioned. She mourned the feeling of adventure those first few weeks in the archives, as though they were embarking on something huge. She mourned the Friday nights drinking and gossiping and teasing with Martin and Tim. She mourned the woman who first applied to the institute with dreams of climbing the ladder to the very top, only to find herself marked ‘assistant’ yet again.

_I should just quit_.

She wiped at her eyes, sniffling rather unattractively as she tried to collect herself. Tim was probably minutes away from getting worried about her absence, so she really ought to get ba-

The sounds of footsteps approached the aisle she was sat in. She quickly wiped her eyes again, pulling herself together and shoving her glasses back onto her fact. She stood, rubbing the wrinkles out of her skirt and looking down the aisle where the footsteps grew louder still.

“ _Hello?”_ a voice echoed down from whoever was walking near.

“Uh, hi, sorry,” Sasha called, already trying to find a justifiable reason she may be back there other than crying her eyes out. She adjusted her glasses and looked about the aisle.

There was a table on the bottom shelf across from her. She could no longer tell where the footsteps were coming from. A terrible sense of dread pooled low in her gut, somehow knowing what she would see when her eyes moved from the webbing, spiraling design of the table.

But, see, Sasha James was no coward. She balled her fists, took a deep breath and looked to the end of the aisle.

_“I see you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try and update every friday but until then please come scream w me on tumblr at [tripleforte](http://tripleforte.tumblr.com)


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